Asexual
by TheDarkestShinobi
Summary: Which was fine, it was all fine, except for when it wasn't; which was often, if John were honest with himself. One sided JohnLock


**TheDarkestShinobi:** BAM, some angst for you guys, because we all do this to ourselves. I debated this title for longer than it took to write the shot.

John couldn't tell when it started.

Well, maybe it was at St. Barts or Angelo's. Had he been attached even then? Everyone else could tell before he could. Even Sherlock thought he was flirting, and Sherlock was the most observant man on the planet. If Sherlock thought he was flirting, then he probably was, even if that wasn't his intent.

But what could he expect. Before Sherlock he was alone, he had nothing, now he had adventures and a bit of fame, a best friend who he would die for; one that may even die for him.

And it really boggled him, because he wasn't gay.

_And I am, look at us both._

Irene had known. It must have started then, maybe before. He isn't gay; even now it was women and him. Holmesexual, he had joked to himself one day. He wasn't the only one though, there was Molly, and they both wanted something that they could never have, that no one could have. Sherlock was unobtainable. Not that Sherlock was out of their league or anything; it was just that he didn't even play the game.

John had said it was all fine, and it was, at first. He hadn't expected to want more from the stranger with the big brain, keen eyes and no filter; the man who would become his best friend.

He still couldn't put it into words and sometimes, when he got angry or frustrated, he would tear Sherlock apart in his head. _What's there to even like anyway? His hair was way too untamed, unkempt. He didn't eat or sleep unless you forced him. He's a child! His skin was way too pale, and there were no muscles save for what it took to climb a fire escape or run after a cab. _

_And a jacket so long in the middle of JULY?_

He sees that jacket and wants to take it off, roughly. He wants to take that shirt off and-and then what? He's never liked a man before so the fantasies end there, with kisses and groans. He's not in love with Sherlock's body, although it's nicer than it could be, it was the intellect and attitude. It was the way he could look through people and at them and tell you everything about them. John couldn't understand what kept people away half the time.

Probably the shooting at the walls, or the bloody harpoon he carries around sometime, but if people _listened_ to him when he spoke. If they watched his eyes light up at a crime scene or ever witnessed his brilliance. Sherlock did like his compliments, even if he never gave any in return.

Sherlock likes gazing, says the eyes are excellent indicators of emotions and deceit, yet he can never sense John's desires when they stare at each other. He never knows that John would do _something_ if he had known just what to do. John hears that low tone and wants it to be telling him something. But what?

"_Get on your knees John_" Sounds weird. Would he even listen? "_Kiss me_" John can't dwell on imaginaries. Sherlock is married to his work, and outside of that, the man doesn't like anyone. Asexual.

Which was fine, it was all fine, except for when it wasn't, which was often, if John were honest with himself.

The git doesn't notice a thing of course. No, who is he kidding, Sherlock probably knew before John did, probably deduced it would happen the first night at Angelo's.

John could walk around naked and Sherlock wouldn't say anything. Sherlock had walked around London with nothing but a sheet so he might not even think of it as anything odd. He could stop wearing the jumpers, but Sherlock wouldn't notice it like that. He had to tell himself again and again, he couldn't win a man with no deal.

So John, three continents Watson, does the only thing he can do. He finds what Sherlock can't give him in women who can. There are enough women in the world to satisfy his groin, but never enough to fill what Sherlock has carved into his being. They both know he'll never leave Sherlock. He can take comfort in the fact Sherlock needs John the way John needs Sherlock, even if their bodies don't need each other in the same way; even if Sherlock's body will never need John's in the same way.

There are plenty of women to say they love him, and sometimes it almost satisfies him, but it's in the wrong tone and voice. It should be enough, because Sherlock will never say it, but it's not. When John needs affection, something Sherlock sees before he does, Sherlock will only say he'd be lost without his blogger. They both know it's more than that. Sherlock's feelings are more than that and John needs more from him but neither of them will say anything else.

Caring is not an advantage. Something John is learning very well.

John will leave when it's too much to bear, he will drink and flirt and wake up in someone else's bed, then he will come home to Sherlock and run around London solving cases and saving lives. He will get the rush of life he had been missing and love it. He loves every minute of it and the man who brings them.

He's stopped denying they are a couple, and Sherlock never starts. People do little else but talk, Sherlock was right, always right. John doesn't care. He wishes it were true and minus anything physical it is. Because there are ways the John will never have Sherlock, but for all intents and purposes, no one will ever have Sherlock as much as John does.

Then, there are times when John knows what he wants. He knows when Sherlock's towering over him and talking to him in those low baritones. He's insulting him and John is bristling, both men have their adrenaline pumping and their faces are inches from each other. That's when John knows what he wants. This is also when he knows he can never have it. It's then, breaths coming out harshly and eyes narrowed and blood racing, when John realizes this is the closest he will ever get to having sex with Sherlock. Their eyes are never more intensely searching the other, their lips never so close. If he leaned forward their bodies would be pressed against each other, and if he rose onto his toes he could take the others lips. He could, he really, really could, but he can't.

Sherlock doesn't have a boyfriend or a girlfriend. He doesn't even have friends. He's just got John.

Which is fine, it's all fine, except for when it isn't.


End file.
